


Listening to a Story

by Brekah



Series: A Man of Strife and Trial [5]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:47:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4453580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brekah/pseuds/Brekah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, it seems, people have to forget each other in order to go about their days. It makes for good listening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Listening to a Story

He can still fit under the table. He remembers it being easier at some point in his life but he cannot remember if that was him or _him_ or someone else. Small and safe under the table, laughing and scared. Staring at feet that could not reach the floor.

They could have been a sister's feet but they are Varric's. Swinging lightly, never close to hitting Cole. Aware of Cole now, as they all are aware. Aware but still forgetting, forgetting in their cups, forgetting in their thoughts, forgetting in their sleep. Sometimes, it seems, people have to forget each other in order to go about their days. It makes for good listening.

“Is that so?” Dorian, fingers always on the pulse of spirits, small spirits, wisps as Solas would call them. Darting them in and out of the waking world, the living world, stealing them just for a moment before placing them back dizzy and confused. Fingers on the pulse of a mug now, the slow twist grinding on the table above Cole. Third cup, fourth cup, keeping up with Varric feeling like a fantastic game. Feet shining in glinting metal, cold and bright. A slight twitch of a foot at Cole's careful touch; hard metal on soft leather.

“Indeed it is. They were star-struck lovers for a time: fell out, fell back in, fell out again, and so on. You know how these things go.” Varric still sharp and sad. An intake of breath, hiss of pain. Cole draws it in, sharp against his teeth. An empty space in a heart.

“Truly. Romance, drama, who bedded who and that whole thing. Such a mess.”

“Hah! Don't even get me started! Blondie was even worse.”

“One day it's, 'You're my one true love! Let's rally up the mages!' Then suddenly, 'You blew up a chantry? That's it, no sex for a week!'” Dorian's voice high and warbling, hand motions locked in words. Imitation. Varric laughs and Cole's mouth twitches. Up, up, smile.

Dorian's voice at normal levels, a shuffle of his feet. Cole touches the metal again and the feet flick, the body sighs. Annoyance, too many times touched. “You know, you never mentioned a third edge to Hawke's romance before. I feel positively lied to.”

Table clacking under a mug. “I most certainly did!”

“You know I read every page of that book no less than three days ago. There was nothing but, 'the deeply glowing sorcerer' this, and, 'the darkly feathered mage' that. Your love of adjectives and adverbs is rather acute.”

Feet kicking in agitation. “Well, shows what a memory you have. You're too busy filling your head with bullshit. You'd remember a useful thing or two if you stopped reading every piece of trash you come across—”

“You mean trash like various works by Genitivi? Or Senallen Tavernier? Perhaps the journals of Senior Enchanter Maleus? Drivel like that? Shall I stick instead to what could possibly be happening in Hightown?”

“You made that last author up.” The legs swinging less now, the story fading. The hurt coming back. Cole stretches out his legs. He will stand, stand and distract Varric from the pain—

“Come, now. I merely tease you and mean no offense. Tell me of this friend of yours. All the better if he escaped my notice in my reading! I love hearing stories for the first time.”

One kick, tentative, then a small jig of swinging feet. Cole pulls his legs back in, tucks them under his chin. His body is electricity, tense and waiting. A story.

“Not much of a story. More of a character than anything else.” Voice low and even, legs stilling but not in sadness. The storied voice, the sharing voice. “Fenris—who is damn well in nearly every chapter of that book, I'll have you know—was a Tevinter slave. A former Tevinter slave, that is. A runaway.” A scrape, a mug across the table. New feet rushing up, careful, holding a tray. Two clunks for two mugs and a pause before two more. The feet balancing away. The clatter of rims, mugs tapping each other.

“To my hoping this story ends up better than most, in regards to runaways at any rate.”

“Well...” A swallow. “Fenris wasn't the most subtle of runaways. His master had burned lyrium into his skin, seared into these intricate designs that covered his entire body. Hurt just to be feeling, Fenris would say—usually after a few drinks. He's a rather broody fellow. But those marks were something else. Made him fight like bronto in heat. I'll never understand how that shit works.”

“Well, you see—”

“I never said I _wanted_ to understand the creepy magical branding, Sparkler.”

“Your loss! It's fascinating. I've only ever seen a few individuals with it. It's rather frowned upon because, well.”

“That whole constant burning thing? It also erased his memories and left him in a near constant fog.”

“Yes, there's a veritable miasma of inhumanity around it all. Fascinating in theory, however.”

“Hmm. Well, the main thing Fenris took from the experience was a hatred of all mages, especially ones from Tevinter.”

“I shall make sure to check under my bed tonight.”

“You should.” Another clacking of rims, deep swallows, two mugs slamming on the table at the same time. “That elf held a grudge like nothing I've ever seen. Killed his former master, eventually. Had to kill each slave hunter that came for him and a mage apprentice or two to boot. Then there was the master himself. Fenris picked Danarius up by the neck, even though the magister had to be at least a foot taller. Snapped it like a twig and slashed the throat to be sure. Shit. The sort of sight that just sits on the back of your eyelids.”

A choke, a heavy crack. Wet ripping and dripping and  _you are no longer my master._ Cole closes his eyes. “I had no choice, Leto.” Cole's own voice, but her words. He keeps his voice small but they hear it. Varric passes down a mug without looking. Cole takes it, smells it, sets it on the floor. He can see Sera's feet at the other end of the tavern. Dancing, tricking, kicking. People laugh. 

“Danarius? Well, that answers the question of why he never came back from the South.” Metal glinting on toes, Cole too frightened of the fear to try and touch. “Magister Danarius. There's a fucking bastard if there ever was one.”

“Come on, Sparkler. Did you actually read my book? That name is all over the place.”

A hand appears under the table, leather between long fingers, the fingers wagging. Cole takes his mug and places the handle in Dorian's hand. He touches the metal on Dorian's boot. The mug rises upward to swallows. “I must have been drunk when I read it. Happens, sometimes. And why do you insist on giving the boy ale? He just leaves it about for people to kick. I nearly ruined a good pair of pants two nights ago from tripping over no less than five of your kind offerings in quick, merciless succession.”

“He'll come around.” Silence, heavy and reflective in the middle of music and sound. Remembering, both of them. “So, you knew Danarius?”

The clunk of the mug against the table. Cole places his hand against the space, still feels the vibration. “I suppose so. My father and I went to a few gatherings Danarius held when I was a child, but my father never had a taste for them. Danarius was always a bit too heavy with the insinuation of blood magic, a bit too harsh with his slaves. Ended up going to Danarius's salon on my own when I was older, once. Or, rather, I stayed on my own. Alexius had taken me to meet a 'magister with a true understanding of lyrium and its properties.' It's where I saw my first lyrium-branded slave. I wonder if it was your friend? Elven chap, beautiful green eyes. Meek as a kitten, but then again so were they all, frightened of Danarius as they were. At any rate the night deepened and us younger folk stayed while our mentors left. There was plenty of drink and interesting conversation and then surprise! The night takes a turn for the uncomfortable. Danarius begins passing his slaves out like candy and he pulls me aside. 'I've got something special for you,' he says.”

“Did you run?”

“I certainly thought about it! But, alas, the inherent foresight of this lust-filled youth was often rather lacking. I knew that Danarius wanted my father to throw in his name behind some voting point in the next meeting of the Magisterium. I also knew that the fetching lyrium-branded slave was Danarius's most prized possession. What can I say? My imagination wandered. I have to admit that I was slow to turn Danarius down.”

“But you did, right? Tell me you did!”

“Hmm. Are we out of ale already? How does this keep happening to us?”

Waving hands made waving bodies, more feet to appear balancing and careful. Cole closes his eyes. Warm skin, olive yet pale. Pale from the lyrium, perhaps, and hair bleached white.  _How shall—_

“'How shall I pleasure you?' That's what the slave asked me. He'd already poured me wine and was kneeling on the floor in the middle of the room. All plush and silken—the room, that is. A little guest room with a merry fire. I can remember the exact way his tattoos glowed down his arms, despite the firelight.”

Frozen feet, frozen body. “You're shitting me. You didn't actually—”

“'Get on the bed,' I said. 'Sit there.' He did. I got up and took a second glass from the cupboard and I filled it with wine. I gave it to him and the poor thing nearly had a heart attack. 'I cannot drink this, I am not allowed,' he said. 'Don't worry, it's a shitty vintage. Your master wouldn't waste the good stuff on the likes of us.'”

“Shit, Sparkler. I can't believe I'm hearing this.”

A movement of feet as Dorian recrosses his legs. The sound of mugs. The cool feel of metal. “He drank up, relaxed a bit. Asked me again what I wanted him to do for me. I told him I wanted him to sit and drink and talk about his tattoos. I tried to touch one—succeeded, actually, but let off when I saw his reaction. He tensed, locked right up. Went pale as a sheet. Took a few breaths and apologized for not being 'more yielding.' Said I could touch him if it pleased me. I told him I was quite pleased with conversation, thank you. Nasty situation, all of that.”

Silence. More silence. An explosion of kicking dwarven feet. “And?”

“Yes?”

“Maker's ass, Sparkler! What happened next?”

“Oh! Did I trail off? I was busy thinking about how awful this ale is, and yet how complex. Ah, yes, he talked about the marks as best he could, explained that they made him feel strong. When I asked about any pain he mentioned a tingling but refused to admit to anything more. Just kept repeating, 'I am grateful for my master's gift.' I even got him to glow for me! Remarkable.”

“Glowing was normally a bad sign.”

“And yet I live to tell the tale. I drew a few of the markings in my journal. I wanted to draw him in his entirety but I was honestly afraid of suggesting such a thing. The longer we talked the less he tried to proposition me and the more comfortable he seemed to become. Suddenly asking to take his clothes off in order to document his most intimate self seemed rather tasteless, all curiosity aside. I stuck to conversation and let the idea of anything physical die out completely.

“Regardless, it was a lovely few hours. I told Danarius that he had quite a talent residing under his roof and he leered much too knowingly for my tastes. I told my father that I had a wonderful time and he backed Danarius on whatever proposal they were on about. I showed Alexius my drawings of the markings and we had a productive Spring researching them. The end.”

“The end? What about the slave? What happened next?”

“What happened next is that I didn't even walk past Danarius's house if I could avoid it. The whole experience was rather unsettling. I didn't want to upset things further.”

Varric leans back in his chair. His feet nearly touch the ground. “Shit, I don't know if the world is getting smaller or I just know too many people.”

“Solas has a few interesting hypotheses on the world getting larger, actually, what with energy and material leaking in from the Fade.”

“I'll pass on that lesson.” More ale, still more. It burns their tongues and laces the sides of their mouths. Cole sticks out his own tongue, preferring to taste the air. “That was a kind thing you did, Sparkler.”

A scuffle, two metal feet on the floor. “Kind thing my ass. All I did was demonstrate to some tortured soul how nice his life would be if he was anywhere else. Oh! Your master forces himself upon you and passes you about like candy! How usual! Oh, and what's this—lyrium burned into your skin! Must be a normal day! But then you learn that your life provides no normal days and every moment is just shit, shit, shit. All thanks to some charming, handsome, perfect youth coming in and displaying what a little bit of mundane decency can look like.” A vibration through the table, a stomp of feet. “And _there_ , my friend, is the complexity of the ale. The room positively spins, now. How are you still drinking this?”

Quiet and slow. Sincerity and admiration. “I'm serious, Dorian. It was good of you.”

There's a slam and vibration and the table scrapes the stone just enough to make the bone touching noise. “No, good of me would have been telling my father exactly what happened. Good of me would have been—shit. I don't know. I've rolled that story through the back of my mind for years. There are no heroics in small kindnesses, Varric, no valor in gently pushing the status quo. Say this slave is indeed your friend—did my actions make him hate Tevinter any less? Did he have any fond memories? Will he stay his hand against the random mage that strays across his path? I should think not! Goodness does not rest in giving someone one night off in a shitty life. It rests in greater things, in the things that leave you uncomfortable, in taking the mortal blow to your reputation, in knowingly succumbing to the Blight, in selling yourself to save your family. In forcing unknown power through the palm of your hand to close the fucking sky!”

Silence, Varric breathing, breathing in anything, one breath to another to stay alive. The quiet. “In staying behind to die in the Fade.”

A heavy sigh, the chair scraping as the body sinks. “Quite.”

Fear and panic and sadness—the pressing deaths of those that love. How to help? Cole touches Dorian's foot, tugs at Varric's boot-flap. The realm of feet does little to soothe the hearts of men. He stands, barks his head against the table. Head throbbing, he climbs into a chair and misses his hat. It is louder up here, with all the thoughts and the music. It shouldn't be louder but it is.

Varric has the sad eyes, the heavy eyes. The loneliness. The shattered state of all things. He smiles now, looking at Cole. The smile is more raw than the withheld tears.

Dorian's eyes are closed. Receding. Overly cautious and unwilling to feel. Pulling in the fear, pushing away the attachment.

“Varric. Your brother thinks of you often. You are a constant light in the swirl of everything. He never knew how to dream before, but now you are there to greet him.”

“Kid...”

“Dorian.You fear the loss but you miss the gain. He loves you. He knows you aren't ready to hear it yet. He'll love you each day, more and more.”

They stare at him, as they always do. Unsettled. He has said the wrong thing. He often says the wrong thing now, and there is no way to fix it—

But there, the slight lifting. The slight uncurling of pain that lets it bleed away.

“I know one thing.” Varric leans back, waving his arms for more ale. “My next best friend is going to be a druffalo herder from some safe nowhere place. No heroics, no calls to glory. Just blissful normal.”

“A proper decision, truly.”

The balancing feet appear in full form with three mugs on a tray. Hands steal away the empties while Varric slides the full mugs in place. The mug's handle is wet in Cole's hand, and sticky.

“Here's to living a fucking normal life.”

“Couldn't have said it better myself, my friend.”

They look at Cole and he meets their mugs with his, warm ale slipping onto his hand, smelling of bad times but also good ones. He brings it to his mouth and sips. His face contorts and he spits into the mug, bitter burning in his mouth, warm and flat. Varric and Dorian laugh and order something sweet to eat. Cole smiles. He likes helping them.


End file.
